


Privileges of Command

by grey_sw (grey)



Category: Gaunt's Ghosts - Dan Abnett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 18:33:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grey/pseuds/grey_sw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gaunt and Rawne work (things) out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Privileges of Command

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prettymanly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettymanly/gifts).



The decks of the _Ser Armaduke_ were busy, crowded with wounded and with men who were only whole by virtue of luck and skill. They shouted Gaunt's name as he passed by, or reached out to touch his arm or his coat. He had a word or a nod for every one of them.

"Looks like they're settling in," Beltayn said. "Bask and Kolea say all's well, too."

"Good. It's a long journey back; they can get a little rest before we ship out again."

They passed Ana Curth as she gave antibiotic injections to a line of troopers, and the conversation died. Gaunt couldn't help but think of Doc Dorden, so recently lost. He'd died the way he'd wanted to, with his boots on, but it hurt the Ghosts just the same.

Before long there'd be no one, no one left to remember Tanith. Gaunt knew it was inevitable -- always had been, since the day of the Founding -- but it still stung. Lately he'd begun to realize that the same was true of everything, even the Imperium itself. There would come a day when there was no one left to remember _Terra_.

Blasphemy, surely, yet his eyes saw it clearly... ever since Jago.

No matter. He'd pledged his life to the Emperor, to the Imperium, and to the memory of Tanith, though the latter had never been his to guard. Those things still mattered to him, more than anything or anyone, and he would fight and die for them, eternal or not.

Gaunt let the thought pass. He turned the corner and walked past a row of storerooms, Beltayn at his side, until he came to the one they'd been using as a gymnasium.

"Think I'll stretch my legs a bit. Watch the door for me, Bel."

"Yes, sir," Beltayn said, as Gaunt closed the door behind him.

Inside was a long room, perhaps twenty paces down and fifty across. His Ghosts had set up mats on the floor and weapons racks along the wall, same as in every billet and transport. The sight made the rusty walls of the _Ser Armaduke_ look more like home. The place was empty save for a single figure, working out on the far mat: Elim Rawne.

Gaunt watched him as he moved, flowing like water. A slash with the warknife tucked against his forearm became an elbow strike, then a punch with his free hand led into a knee-kick. Straight silver flashed again and again. Rawne had rubbed all but the edge of his knife in boot-black so it wouldn't reflect in the field, and its bright razor's edges caught the light like jewels in pitch.

Rawne pressed the attack against his invisible opponent, whipping his arm out in a series of quick, vicious slashes. Gaunt knew no man who could parry that sequence; he himself would have been hard-pressed to answer it. It ended in an upward strike, one that would've punched through the braincase of a cultist or even an ork. For a long moment Rawne balanced there, frozen in time, with the pride of Tanith held high in his hand.

Then he spoke, still motionless as a stone. "A man needs privacy for this kind of thing, 'Bram."

"A lasman has no privacy," Gaunt smirked. "You know that."

"Guess I do." Rawne stretched, alive again, and dropped down onto the balls of his feet. "Care to have a go?" he asked, flicking the tip of his knife up in question.

"A fine idea," Gaunt said. He drew his sword and let it hum for a moment, its power field shimmering blue. Heironymo Sondar's sword was still the finest weapon Gaunt had ever held: long and slender, yet weighted for war. It had been made by a master-craftsman, but it lacked the fillips and decorations which marred so many of the weapons of the Imperium -- only the aquila-shaped guard and the inscription along its blade hinted at its provenance.

Gaunt thumbed the power field off, and raised his sword in salute. For a moment he thought Rawne might face him with nothing but his warblade; the commander of another regiment might have laughed at that, but not Ibram Gaunt. He'd seen Rawne slay many swordsmen with that knife, ending their lives with an easy quip on his lips. This time, though, Rawne turned and drew a standard-issue sword from the rack, sheathing his knife in his boot.

"You ready?" Rawne asked. Before Gaunt could answer Rawne was on him, slamming the sword down in a mighty blow. Gaunt sidestepped and brought his own sword round to strike, but too late. Rawne's seeming overextension had been a feint. His boot shot out, catching Gaunt above the knee, and only a quick sweep of Sondar's sword kept him from pressing the advantage. Gaunt hopped back, grinning, and delivered a surprise of his own.

"You that eager for it, Eli?" he teased. "Last time not enough for you?"

Rawne's right eye narrowed within its starburst of blue ink. "Feth you!"

He backed it up with another swing, right at eye level. Gaunt danced back, blocked the next blow, and returned with one of his own, which Rawne blocked in turn. They began to fight in earnest, moving on instinct; Gaunt let himself go, losing himself in the sound of clashing metal and the burn in his arms. He moved like a dancer and Rawne moved with him, pacing up and down the length of the room.

They'd done this together on Gereon, letting their swords drive the shadows away. Gaunt didn't let himself go _that_ far -- back then he'd come within a sword-span of killing Rawne once, and he'd had to pull the tip of Rawne's knife from between his ribs on another occasion -- but it still felt damned good to spring free after the slow burn of Salvation's Reach. Rawne thought so, too; Gaunt could tell by the manic grin on his fierce, narrow face.

"C'mon!" Rawne yelled, slashing for Gaunt's belly. "Told you I'd kill you myself -- let's go, old man!"

Gaunt grunted and bulled forward, driving Rawne back. He answered with a quick, one-handed swipe that would've struck home against any other opponent; Gaunt only barely managed to turn it aside, and his sole reward was a punch in the face. He reeled, stumbling back, and Rawne went for him.

Mistake. Gaunt brought his sword around in a ringing blow, stripping the blade from Rawne's hand. He let his own sword follow it down, and then they were tussling, rolling together over the mat. Rawne hit him in the head again. He bellowed and snapped his forehead into Rawne's; the metal cowling around his new eyes left a bleeding mark above Rawne's eye, like an iron star. Rawne grabbed Gaunt's coat and pulled him close, going for a throw, but Gaunt reversed it, yanking Rawne's arm up into a vicious hold.

Rawne swore upon all the saints, struggling uselessly. Gaunt tightened his grip each time, tight to the point of dislocation, until his opponent finally sighed and went still.

"Y'got me," Rawne muttered.

"I always do," purred Gaunt.

He loosened his hold, just a fraction. Rawne turned on him, a striking snake, elbowing free before thrusting forward to capture Gaunt's lips. His hands carded in Gaunt's hair, fierce and hot. Gaunt chuckled and pulled him closer, into the circle of his coat; Rawne's tongue pushed at his lips, as if daring him to laugh again.

Gaunt's skull-brimmed hat fell behind him, forgotten as the kiss deepened.

Rawne tasted good, like amasec and spice. Gaunt took the time to get to know him again, nibbling his lips, running his hands over Rawne's back. Rawne moved impatiently against him, muttering into his mouth. He didn't want to wait, and busied himself with tugging Gaunt's shirt out of his pants.

They'd done _this_ before on Gereon, too, keeping each other sane. It didn't take long to hit a rhythm, chest to chest, Rawne jerking himself while Gaunt worked a finger inside him.

"Feth," Rawne muttered, shoving himself down against Gaunt's hand. "Gakking bastard, just do it, c'mon!"

Gaunt smiled at that. "A fine example of Tanith and Verghast solidarity. Ought to give you a medal, Major."

"Oughtta give _you_ a knife in the back. One of these days..."

Gaunt just nodded, and added another finger. Rawne groaned, bit at his neck, and began to swear, a steady stream of invective which didn't stop until Gaunt pressed into him... and then only for a second. They rocked together in the middle of the ring, straining as though they were still wrestling. Gaunt closed his eyes, his traitorous eyes. Rawne was warm and alive against him, all hard muscle and gravel voice -- he was alive, they all were. Safe for now, and victorious again.

"Hate you," Rawne muttered. "Hate you, ah feth, but glad y'came back..."

Gaunt pulled him closer, allowing himself a sigh. Rawne was so tight around him that he knew it wouldn't last long. He went along with it, thrusting wildly, meeting Rawne at every upstroke. The rhythm was perfect, deep and fast and good, just like always. He pulled Rawne's arms around him, let his legs curl round to meet them; when Gaunt finally came it was with a wordless shout of joy.

Rawne smirked down at him and finished against his belly, grinning at the mess he'd made.

"You're cleaning that up, Major," Gaunt said, once he'd caught his breath.

Rawne knelt to apply his tongue, and Gaunt gave silent thanks to the Emperor for the privileges of command.


End file.
